obedience
The
words on the note I’ve passed to you are unmistakable, yet they seem so out of
touch with the reality you’ve immersed yourself in that, contrary to your
nature, or at least to your already considerable experience, you blush.
Yet your
hand is already on its way to do as my note bid. Obedience is no longer a
matter of choice, of reflection of any consideration of the consequences of
what you are made to do.
One part
of you may well be considering the implications of the order. You are bound to
be working at the fact that around our dinner table are friends who you thought
knew nothing of what you are. They are people with whom you have interacted
like a person with choices and a right to modesty.
Yet no
matter how inappropriate it may seem your fingers have already slipped under
your pants and your underwear. I smile across the table. I already know the
state your fingers will find you in when they reach your folds and you so, obviously and inconcealably in front of the table of civililized
persons who must surely have thought you a civilized girl.
dignity
You can
see glances are exchanged. Some of them are shocked, scandalized. You must be
looking like some idiot completely without inhibitions, let alone table
manners, so obviously masturbating in the middle of the entre.
You can see
the way you are being looked at changing… not just to shock but to hunger –
lust. You can see how you are changing in the eyes of the people around you
from a person to an object of either indignation, desire or most likely a
little of both. By what must seem like your own initiative, your own lack of
the inhibitions that are part of what it is to be a person, you’ve been reduced
to an something quite obviously not worthy of the dignity or restraint afforded
a person.
There is
both a shame and a pride in the fact that you do not even consider the
consequences. It’s been long since obedience was a matter of choice to you. You
may think of the consequences of your actions but you do not stop to think; you
can only reflect on what must be the consequences of the things that you will
inevitably do because you are ordered to do them. It’s as if you are watching a
movie or a play that just happens to have you as both the protagonist and the
powerless observer.
Even as
your cheeks burn and you realize this is going to be a harsh night, a part of
you relaxes and feels relief. You know now that the amount of autonomy I have
entrusted you with is soon to be suspended and you are likely to spend the
night surrendered to whatever I might have planned for you. There is a great
peace in that, even though you will have anything but peace tonight. And a
freedom, even though you have no choice and no power over what is to happen.
shredding
Her
fingers are more dexterous, more agile than the others as they examine you,
your need all the more obvious. And your girl friend is forcing you to look her
into the eyes as she is doing so, she still fully dressed in skirt and a top while
your pants are down your thighs and someone pushed up your top to expose your
breasts.
One of
the men, mean-while have produced a pair of cuffs from somewhere and draw your
arms behind your back, cuffing your wrists to make your exposure, your lack of
control, even more complete. It’s not as if you’d need cuffing, being ordered
about, seeing me showing, that I approve of their control of you is more than
enough to keep your hands submissively out of the way. Yet the cuffs reinforce
your status, and in a way as soon as they close you feel yourself relaxing into
them; one less part of you to control, one more way in which you will only
follow now.
Your
friend makes a joke that it was no wonder you had to be such a slut to be
masturbating with the amount of juices you’ve accumulated. You know she’s
right, you know your cunt is gushing fluids although you are pretty sure it has
much more to do with the situation than any kind of masturbation. Though the
fact that you are in such a state that you helplessly grind yourself against
her probing fingers make it clear to anyone that you belong like this.
Then the
man who was cuffing you grabs you. He was a stranger to you before tonight. Soon,
you expect he will be no stranger to any part of your body. The man eagerly
gropes your exposed breasts, hurting you a little. Then he forces his fingers up
deep in you, one-upping your friend that “such a slut can’t wait for a chance
to let go of any decency”.
He is
both right and wrong. One part of you could very well wait and would have
wished to hold on to that decency, hold on to that façade of normalness you
have always needed and had to maintain. One part of you still feels attached to
that identity.
Yet
another part of you, the part that is taking over, revels in the fact that now
you don’t need to keep any part of what you are back from them anymore. You
have no control so you have no responsibility. You are given no modesty so you
have no dignity to protect. You can freely feel whatever you feel and be the
sexual creature you are. You neither may nor can hide your nature, and there is
a great freedom in that.
breaking
You
retch again and then, as the guy yanks your head by the hair against his
crotch, painfully forcing his cock down your throat you’re unable to hold back
and the first course comes out over the cock and down the front of the drewly
mess your top has already become.
Sucking
cock or taking it in your throat is far from new to you. But it’s obvious that
what’s happening right now is not about allowing you to remain in control, to
perform well within or at the limits of what you can make your body do. You are
being used.
You are
given only a moment, where you gasp for breath the man yanks your hair,
slapping you harshly across the face for not offering your mouth right at the
moment he wants it. Then he jams himself inside of you, hurting the already
aching back of your throat. You feel how he’s been spurred on by the fact that
he made you throw up. You’re becoming a teary slobbering mess, and it’s in that
that the men are taking pleasure. It’s in your lack of control. In your lack of
capacity to handle the use they are subjecting you to.
In their
brutality the men who are using you know what they are doing. They aren’t just
mindlessly getting so carried away that you cannot control yourself as they
assault your throat. Rather they consciously reducing an excellent cock-sucker,
a beautiful sexy creature who knows what she’s doing with your body to a
drawling, dirty mess being passed around.
The man
empties down your throat and you are forced to swallow. His cock draws a strand
of cum puke and saliva as he pulls free, passing you on to his friend before he
falls into a chair, reaching for a glass of wine.
Giving
head involves agency, a level of control. None of those has been allowed you since
you were ordered to start masturbating.
use
You can
feel her pleasure. You feel her fingers tightening around your head as she
draws your face against her folds, using you for her pleasure. She moans, but
it is in his kiss, somewhere above you, you know, her eyes locked with her
lovers.
Although
you are buried underneath your friend’s skirt, and she is obviously feeling
every move of your tongue on her privates, you are merely used as a vessel for
her pleasure. You are a toy, shared between her and her lover who is taking you
from behind while kissing his love.
It’s not
about you. Your gasping for air through the sensation you are giving as you
desperately lick her is not about you. His taking you from the behind is not about
you.The plug nestled deep in your ass is only about your tightness and his
pleasure. Not about you.
Then you
realize that as he fucks you she’s feeling his growing urgency, translating to
your breathless service to your friend. And as you feel her bucking against you
and straining in her orgasm you realize you’re convulsing around her lover in
time with her climax. Though he is fucking you and she is being serviced by
your mouth, they are making love and sharing their passions through you.
You have
no control. It’s not even about you. You are a vessel of their pleasure. But
you are of use.
pride
My
warmth envelops you as you sit on my lap. I have my arms wrapped around you and
I kiss your forehead again. You’re still shivering somewhat from the harshness
of your night of use, but your mind is melting away onto a soft cloud of
content as you can now rest with no demands, no more assaults on your control
and no more need to control anything.
You know
I’m proud of you and you realize you’re proud of yourself too. You are proud
even though you have been a filthy hole for me tonight. Or rather you are proud
because of it.
Our
guests have left a while ago and as they left each one praised your use. Not in
the manner of thanking you of course – how could a girl give herself to others
when she is already owned property. And not just what happened after you
started masturbating.
Even
though most everyone at the table was making you feel pathetically helpless and
not worthy of dignity you were earlier, everyone who was part of tonight made
sure to tell you that you could take pride in what you did. And they made sure
to show you, that they respect you. You realize that I would never have allowed
anyone who wasn’t able to respect you after it to use you like you have been
used.
Your
friend made a point of praising your work on the entre almost in the same
sentence as how beautiful you were tonight and that she looked forward to
seeing you for tea the coming week. You needed to know, she seemed to think,
that the fact that you are a helpless fucktoy did not make the things you do in
the outside world a lie.
Your
pride is not in seeming like a free person. You wear clothes, you take
decisions, you are afforded control over who touches you and who uses your
body. But those are all necessary means to travel the world of normalcy. But it
is the way you are of use and worthwhile, as a friend, as a helpless hole, as a
young professional or as a paintoy that you pride of.
Your
ability to obey and let go of any inhibitions make you useful as a slut and you
are proud of that. Just as you are proud of the achievements that require that
you pass for a free autonomous person much of the time. Neither part of your
life makes the other untrue. Both are equally part of your service as an owned
girl.